'Launcelot, come and walk with me awhile,' she said kindly, 'unless you have something better to do—with your arms and war gear as it may be,' she added. And her way of speaking thus of my calling as a soldier pleased me. Also in spite of my renunciation of all pleasure in women's society, my heart gave a great stound at her marked favour. Perhaps, also, at the way she had in walking, which was with her head high and her bosom set well forward in its openwork bodice of fair linen, and all her sweet body swaying lightly to the side as a willow wand that bends in the wind.
Her voice, the voice of Marjorie Kennedy, sounded like the running of deep water in a linn under the dusk of trees, with undercurrents of sobs and pitifulness in it, for all that it was so proud. For even thus, in her youth, walking as the fairest maid the sun shone on, Marjorie seemed ever to be 'fey,' trysted to some lot beyond that of maids who are to be good men's wives and mothers.
But enough of speaking about her and about. Better that I should tell what she said to me as we walked up and down, while the young buds were cracking open that gracious May gloaming.
'It was a good fight, I hear, and well fought,'she said.
'Which fight may it please you to speak of, my Lady Marjorie?' said I, making as though I had been in many.
'The battle in the High Street of Edinburgh,' she made answer, and methought smiled as she said it. But there was no bairnly scorn or raw coltish ignorance in Marjorie's smile, as there mostly was in the face of her sister—who was nothing but a child at any rate, and still wore her hair without a snood, flying daft-like about her shoulders.
Then I told Marjorie Kennedy of all the fight, and she listened with face turned away from me to the sea, looking to the hills of Arran that were so blue in the distance, so that for a space I thought she hearkened not to what I said.
But in a little she interrupted me. 'And you speak thus with admiration of Gilbert Kennedy of Bargany, he that is an enemy to our house and name! How say ye then that such an one is noble and worthy?'
For I had been telling her of meeting him coming from the king's palace.
'Ay, noble and generous is Gilbert Kennedy of Bargany, as well as the handsomest man that walks, with a spring to his feet as one that goes upon the deep twigs of the pine trees in the woods. He can twirl a lance in one hand on horseback—for I myself have seen him—never was there such a man!'